


Evolution of Depravity

by transcryptidone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha Matthew Brown, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Bottom Will Graham, Breeding Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Implied Mpreg, Knife Kink, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Will Graham, Season 2 AU, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Helps Himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcryptidone/pseuds/transcryptidone
Summary: Will disappears.Well, he doesn’t so much disappear in that he can be tracked from camera frame to camera frame right out the front door, escorted out as if he’d just been released. The keys swung at his escort’s side. None of the alarms went off.The first day after Will disappears, Hannibal has his own escorts of a sort – two FBI agents, probably just graduated from being trainees. Hannibal is watched almost as closely as Will’s dogs are, which is more irritating than it could possibly be helpful.--“Do you know why the Australian red back spider engages in the ultimate sacrifice? Do you know why he assists his own cannibalization?” Matthew asks while he just keeps on smiling. “He will throw himself into his mate’s mouth because he’s not worth anything more than that.”“Is that what Will Graham will do to you?” Hannibal whispers, but puts as much bite into the whisper as he can.Matthew laughs, but it’s soft and quiet. It’s nothing compared to a scoff that echoes off stone. Hannibal looks towards the source.
Relationships: Matthew Brown/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 175





	Evolution of Depravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreudianDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreudianDreams/gifts).



> Written based on a prompt given by Shirlisa/[FreudianDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreudianDreams/pseuds/FreudianDreams): Omega Will leaving Hannibal to go to Matthew Brown and Hannibal as an Alpha just can't accept that and proves he's more superior and capable to be Will's Alpha.

“It seems you have an admirer,” Hannibal observes, hands crossed in front of him and coat folded over his arm.  
  
It’s _dingy_ in here, dark and abandoned like a basement collecting cobwebs. The bars of the cell are _rudimentary_ , confining a man’s spirit as much as his physical form. The intention is to deprive as much as they can. Misery is the intended punishment. Will certainly seems miserable as he sits on his barebones bed in a jumpsuit that is intended to _not_ be flattering, though the dull color only makes the rest of Will more radiant by comparison. Even hunched and bent over to press his forehead against his clenched fists, Will can only be something of beauty.  
  
Will tips his head, turning his forehead along the edge of a knuckle. He looks over near Hannibal but not _at_ him. “You think someone sent me an ear because they admire me?”  
  
“The boundaries of what’s considered normal are getting narrower,” Hannibal observes with the curious twitch of a brow. “Outside those boundaries, this may be intended as a helpful gesture.”  
  
Will does look _at_ him now. For all Will spoke of disliking eye contact during their first meeting, he’s certainly very adept at it when he does. He holds Hannibal locked in a gaze and forces Hannibal to confront the knowledge that there is almost nothing that Will doesn’t see. So long as Will’s looking, he will find any detail as it’s revealed.   
  
“How far would you go to help me?” Will asks as he sits up further.  
  
Will’s spine straightens and then curves back as Will rolls his neck and tilts his head upward. He sighs out in a gust and the air brings with it a sweet scent that’s lost the sharpness of its fever. As the encephalitis has been successfully treated, it no longer taints Will’s scent. In fact, Will’s true scent is purer and stronger than it’s ever been.  
  
He sent Will to prison because it needed to happen. Now, what needs to happen is getting Will back out again and in a timely manner. There are many options for how to accomplish that. The court case offers one. An escape is another. The question of how those things might be accomplished then branches into further options to consider.  
  
“It hadn’t occurred to me to send you an ear,” Hannibal admits. “But I’m grateful someone has.”  
  
Will seems surprised to hear it. He only lets himself show it for a second and then returns easily to bitterness as he says, “Gratitude has a short half-life.”  
  
“So can doubt,” Hannibal suggests. He would like Will’s doubt to have a very short half-life indeed. However, Will has demonstrated that what Hannibal wishes for might factor in less than he would like. What might win out is how Will can only be expected to do the unexpected. “I have new thoughts about who you are,” Hannibal tells him. “There may very well be another killer.”  
  
Will’s voice is so _soft_ as he whispers, _“I want there to be.”_  
  
Hannibal has to use his restraint and his awareness of the here-and-now. His focus tightens with how _acutely_ aware he is of the present moment. Every shift in expression and the flow of air with each breath in and out is _felt_ in ways that most people usually try to ignore. Will has regained his inability to ignore it and Hannibal doesn’t want him to feel the need to ignore much more.  
  
Hannibal sighs as looks downwards as if hesitant. “Some part of you still suspects me,” he says because it has to be said. Will needs encouragement to say the words and let them be known. Only by making them known can they be dealt with too. Not unlike in Confession. Or in an exorcism.   
  
“I don’t know what anyone is capable of anymore, least of all myself,” Will says. His hands shake as he presses his fingers against his eyes. His breath comes out shaky too as his fingers fall away heavily and pull against his cheek. “But, _um,_ I know there is no evidence against you.”  
  
“There never was,” Hannibal says. It’s the closest to truth not because he’s innocent but because he’s _very good_. All evidence goes away before it can risk spoiling.  
  
“Accusing you makes me look insane,” Will observes. His smile is tight and sharp like a wince. Then, as a tongue drags across the edges of teeth, Will’s expression drags towards something more serious. “I’m not insane. Not anymore.”  
  
“You may not be guilty,” Hannibal says as he steps closer to the exit and steps in better alignment with Will as well. “This ear you were sent is an opportunity. If someone else is responsible for your crimes, perhaps he now wants to be seen.”  
  
Will furrows his brow and might seem genuinely confused as he asks, “Why would he want to be seen now?”  
  
Hannibal hums and offers, “He cares what happens to you.”  
  
It becomes clear that the _ear_ is truly only an opportunity whereby it acts as an opening for another event. When the house Jack is about to raid bursts instead into flames, Hannibal can appreciate the theatricality of it all. In this admirer’s emulation and interpretation of the copycat’s murders – _Hannibal’s_ murders – he at least adheres to the sense of drama.   
  
Hannibal would find it more flattering if Will didn’t seem to find it that way too.   
  
“My admirer?” Will says as he sits at the table in one of the private interview rooms. It is, of course, just as gray and drab as Will’s cell – even if a little more _minimalist_ about how exactly the banality is achieved. The only color in the room comes from the pink of Will’s cheeks and the blue of his eyes. A band of gold seems to grow around his pupil with every passing second.   
  
“Yes. The forensic report from the crime scene,” Hannibal informs him from his seat across the metal table. He opens the envelope and presents its contents to Will for his appraisal and approval. “What do you see?”  
  
He watches Will preside over it all. The papers are taken in hands that flick through with a dismissive detachedness. After the documents have given Will all the information they have to offer, Will then picks up a picture and closes his eyes as if to forget Hannibal is even there. Hannibal might even feel as though he’s fading into the background as Will immerses himself in another’s crime.  
  
Hannibal waits patiently and watches as Will’s eyes move behind closed lids and his lips mouth words that he’s learned not to say allowed in case anyone might be listening when they shouldn’t be. There have been too many crime scenes where boundaries are ignored and curious ears can’t help but indulge their schadenfreude – though they’ll cover it up by blaming Will for it once they’re satisfied.  
  
Will opens his eyes again and sets the picture back on the table. “Crime of passion,” he announces, hardly blinking now that his eyes are _open_.  
  
Hannibal pauses. Will has learned to choose his words very carefully – _pack hunters_ – and so Hannibal can hardly take his words to hold the _simplest_ or most _obvious_ meanings. The most _common_ interpretation of what Will’s words would suggest a killer with strong impulses and little planning. Will and Hannibal both know very well that _this_ is not _that_ at all. This killer’s passion is of another kind.  
  
“It seems your admirer may be lovesick,” Hannibal observes with a click of his tongue.  
  
Will laughs once sharply and shows the pointed edges of his canines. “This is a _hell_ of a _courtship_ ,” Will says with another sharp scoff. “He could have at least arranged it as a heart or a bouquet of roses.”  
  
Hannibal wonders if something so overt would really be wanted. Will has always seemed to find the more subtle to be more palatable. With such a keen sense of the world, Will finds the nuances appealing and the brazen is _overwhelming_. But, perhaps, not…  
  
Will’s thumb brushes against the bloodied tips of antler horns captured for all time in a glossy photo. As his finger drags across it, the burnt corpse at its center might look like a heart punctured on its own ribcage. “Providing,” Will muses, his tone light with humor and a hint of a sweetened haze. “Like an Alpha should.”  
  
Hannibal hums and tightens his control on his expression, warding off any sign of a flinch or hint at disappointment. “I did not expect you to be so traditional.”  
  
“Yes, you did.”  
  
There’s a clinking as the links of the chain attached to Will’s handcuffs shift through the ring of metal that tethers him to the table. The shift of Will’s hands pulls inward but the length of the chain is too short. He can barely make it as far as having his palms against the edge of the table.  
  
Will clenches his fingers into fists, frustrated and that much more frantic when having his instincts denied. Will has to settle for hunching over and leaning his shoulders far enough to allow one hand to pat at his own shoulder. He tips his head to _ever so slightly_ expose the side of his neck as he recalls, _“We’re fathers now.”_  
  
Hannibal recalls it with him. He remembers Will arriving at his office with a prowl in his posture and with teeth all too ready to bite as he spoke. Will had been angry, but that anger was dominated by a _protectiveness_. Will demonstrated then how he would attend to a wayward pup in danger.   
  
Hannibal remembers him staring out of the window with controlled ferocity. He recalls thinking that Will would be the most wonderful protector of their young. When he’d laid his hand on Will’s shoulder, Hannibal felt the strength in Will through layers of muscle, into his blood, and down to his bones. Hannibal remembers deciding then that Will might benefit from a little more help getting in touch with his instincts.  
  
This admirer has the potential to hurt Hannibal’s agenda as much as he helps.  
  
“Seems you have time yet before you need to concern yourself with a mate,” Hannibal suggests. “Or a brood.”  
  
“I couldn’t say,” Will says as he straightens in his seat again. The look in his eyes is one of deadly sarcasm. “I haven’t had a great sense of _time_ recently.”  
  
Hannibal taps his finger against the table, just loud enough to be heard and consistent enough to punctuate. “The clock is ticking the same as it always has.”  
  
“You know the antivirals for the encephalitis rendered my suppressants _ineffective_ ,” Will tells him, likely knowing perfectly well that any changes that have to do with him are things Hannibal has been made aware of one way or another. Chilton had told him this one, even though he didn’t need to.  
  
“I can tell,” Hannibal remarks.  
  
Will’s scent has grown stronger with each day and fills the small room they’re contained in with a thickening cloud. To Hannibal’s sensitive nose, it’s almost difficult to believe that the air isn’t hazy with it like smoke.   
  
Hannibal’s perfectly tailored suit feels _tight_ and his dreaded _person suit_ along with it. Hannibal’s own instincts rebel at the vulnerability of the clear wall that divides them from the orderly just outside the door. This privacy room is denied some of its privacy, rendering them contained but never fully protected. He’s never before felt the longing to build a nest, but sure enough in the back of his mind there’s an itch to tuck away and barricade.   
  
“The clock ticks like before the explosion of a bomb,” Will says and his eyes slide closed slightly as he’s affected by his own haze.  
  
“You need something to ease _the bang,_ ” Hannibal suggests as his lips curl upward at one end.  
  
Will scoffs but it’s the part of that laugh that’s genuine that has Hannibal smiling further. “I’ll hardly get _premium services_ here,” Will says as he licks his lips. When he sighs, there’s sweat beading at his hairline. He wraps his hands around the length of chain connected to the manacle at each wrist. As Will grips them, he might seem to imagine being desperate enough to rip the bolt from the table. “Not that I would outside of here anyway. But all of this has me reconsidering my _prospects_.”  
  
“You’ve never had the opportunity to be treated as an Omega should be,” Hannibal says, thinking of how Jack thinks treating Will _worse_ will show how he’s not getting preferential treatment. Will’s upbringing hardly allowed him to know what should be offered to an Omega. He wasn’t given the opportunity to learn that his discerning eye should be used to his benefit.  
  
“Don’t consider yourself any different,” Will says, nearly _snaps._ “At least my admirer wanted to see me set free.”  
  
Will’s hands become fitful again as he’s still withheld from pressing his hands to his middle. His restraints deny him the opportunity to ease the ache in his core. This is the pain felt before the pleasure, just as the temporary restriction that is Will’s confinement will be the cost for something much more satisfying. He guesses Will enjoys his aching cramps as much as Hannibal enjoys his own soreness at their separation. Will’s loathing smarts too.  
  
Hannibal looks down and feels his lips downturn too. He slides his hands across the table as if frowning at dust he’s brushing away. “I don’t want you to be here,” he states. It hardly comes out as an assertion or an argument, more like an _admission_.  
  
“I don’t want me to be here either,” Will says and Hannibal might actually _feel it_ like generations of instinct would like him to. An Omega making a request of a prospective Alpha might hardly seem to qualify as a simple _request_. There have been times when such a request has become a matter of _provide or die_.  
  
“Then you have a choice," Hannibal observes. “This killer wrote you a poem. Are you going to let his love go to waste?”  
  
When that poem reveals itself to be lacking in substance, it seems as though Will views it as _Hannibal’s_ failure rather than the failure of the Alpha who faltered in his ability to _reproduce_. This copycat’s copy acted as a game of telephone wherein the last iteration was found to be lacking key syllables. The message needed to regain its clarity. Whether or not Will recognizes it yet, Hannibal does in fact _provide_ – first in the form of a mistrial. Will then proves himself too impatient to wait and see what else Hannibal can provide.  
  
He disappears.  
  
Well, he doesn’t so much _disappear_ in that he can be tracked from camera frame to camera frame right out the front door, escorted out as if he’d just been released. The keys swung at his escort’s side. None of the alarms went off. No one seemed to notice until _everyone_ is suddenly in a frenzy. Jack demands to know how this could happen. Chilton insists he’s not at fault – even when it’s discovered that at least half of Matthew Brown’s background had been a fabrication.  
  
The first day after Will disappears, Hannibal has his own escorts of a sort – two FBI agents, probably just graduated from being trainees. Hannibal is watched almost as closely as Will’s dogs are, which is more irritating than it could possibly be helpful. Will wouldn’t risk repeating himself. He wouldn’t do something so foolhardy as going to see Alana at home or visiting Hannibal at his office. Will’s not searching for the answers anymore; he thinks he’s found them. He hasn’t realized what he still doesn’t completely _see_. He’s still blinded by perceptions of limitations, when in reality there should be none.  
  
Day after day passes with less and less apparent hope for discovering where Will’s gone. Hannibal starts to wonder if Will’s plan was to confine Hannibal to a prison of illusions. Hannibal can’t seem to go out without it being known about and so he can’t engage in any activities out of the seemingly ordinary. Will might be teaching him what it’s like to be under the watch of guards without even having to send him to prison.  
  
Hannibal recalls what Will said about the ticking of a clock and remembers what he’d himself said about a _bang_.  
  
It all simmers under his skin. No amount of cooking can sate it. Hannibal tries favored recipes and extravagant indulgences, but still can’t distract himself fully. Food is packed away in many containers like one might stockpile for a prolonged heat. Still, the taste of fine wine on his tongue only makes his teeth feel sharper and long for something _richer_.  
  
His appointed guards take pity on him after enough time has passed. Although tonight’s agents are Betas, they might still be able to smell the impending rut. He hopes the crisp scent of chlorine in the pool water might cut through the stench and spare him some of the indignity. As he swims, he might feel as though he is stretching his arms out and testing the reach of them for the first time in a long while.  
  
That his arms are outstretched might be the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes again. The second thing he notices is the loop of rope tight around his neck. As he coughs, he feels the chafe of pool water at the back of his throat and the burn of the rope digging into his skin. The cough jerks at his chest enough to upset his balance on the bucket under his feet.  
  
He recognizes Matthew from the times Hannibal visited Will, the many viewings of the recordings of Will’s escape, and the wanted posters made to try to find him. He’s not dressed in pristine white scrubs this time, rather he wears track pants and a matching jacket left unzipped. He stands at the bottom of a set of stone stairs and looks up at Hannibal with nothing less than _glee_ in his eyes and further sharpening his already sharp features.  
  
“Judas had the decency to hang himself in shame at his betrayal,” Matthew informs him. “But I thought you needed help.” Hannibal groans quietly as he wobbles and Matthew barely gives the bucket’s precarious tilting more than a glance. “Did you know that the phrase ‘to kick the bucket’ came from exactly this situation? You could kick it out right now yourself and it’d all be over. Quicker than bleeding out.”  
  
“I’m not bleeding,” Hannibal rasps. His head is woozy with reduced oxygen, but not a lack of blood.  
  
Matthew picks up a knife, a switchblade bent open and glinting with its sharpness. He turns it between his fingers as he says, “Not yet.”  
  
“Will Graham is not what you think,” he tells him. As much as Matthew may be devoted, his devotion is dedicated to an incomplete understanding. He doesn’t know the truth of Will, so while his admiration is not misplaced, it’s also cheapened. “He’s not a murderer.”  
  
“If he isn’t already, he will be,” Matthew says easily, his tone is light with a certain mischievous playfulness, like a teenager who rebels and indulges and does not yet know his own limits.  
  
The sound of Hannibal’s strangled breaths is loud and unmannerly. He doesn’t think much of manners when he tips a little too far forward and grunts. In punishment, the rope groans as it shifts and tightens. Hannibal uses what breath he can manage as he rasps, “Did he ask you to do this?”  
  
“It’s my job to see Will’s wishes met,” Matthew says and sweeps his hand in a little circle to accentuate how he bows. “That’s what an Alpha is meant to do.”  
  
“He’s not your mate,” Hannibal argues with a wheeze.  
  
He can see from the bareness of Matthew’s neck that there’s no bite to be found there. Although Hannibal can smell Will on his admirer – and smell his _heat_ stronger than ever – there’s no sign of their scents truly intertwining, merely proximity rubbing off. That could be easily washed away.   
  
Matthew paces around Hannibal with a gun in his hand. His eyes are wide open with a sense of _wildness_ and Hannibal can smell that Will’s brought him close to rut too. Matthew holds him in that wide-eyed stare as says, “Now I’m going to ask you a few yes or no questions while you still have enough blood coursing through your brain to answer them. You ready?”  
  
It comes out as a whisper: _“Ready.”_  
  
“Did you kill that judge?” Matthew asks as he crouches down low on the stairs, still playful while readying himself to pounce. He rises to his feet and prowls closer as he explains, “I can ask you yes-or-no questions, you don’t have to say a word, and I’ll know what the answer is. The pupil dilates with specific mental efforts. You dilate that’s a _yes_. No dilation equals _no_.”  
  
Hannibal won’t back down from looking him in the eye. There wouldn’t be a point to it and it would only suggest shame or embarrassment, neither of which he would give Matthew the satisfaction of presuming to bring about.  
  
“Are you the Chesapeake Ripper?” Matthew asks and then waits long enough for Hannibal’s eyes to betray their keeper. Matthew smiles in satisfaction, hiding nothing with his eyes either. “How many times have you watched someone cling on to a life that’s not really worth living? Eking out a few extra seconds. Wondering why they bother.”  
  
Hannibal grunts and twists his neck. The rope creaks further in warning not to get too ahead of himself. “I know why,” Hannibal says as he grits his teeth. His words are caught in a throat that feels itself closing in. “Life is precious.”  
  
“Do you know why the Australian red back spider engages in the ultimate sacrifice? Do you know why he assists his own cannibalization?” Matthew asks while he just keeps on _smiling_. “He will throw himself into his mate’s mouth because he’s _not worth_ anything more than that.”  
  
“Is that what Will Graham will do to you?” Hannibal whispers, but puts as much bite into the whisper as he can.  
  
Matthew laughs, but it’s soft and quiet. It’s nothing compared to a scoff that echoes off of stone. Hannibal looks towards the source.  
  
Will looks better than he ever has before in another dreary, colorless place. Though the stone has its elegance and beauty in the swirls of grays and the many patterns they create – _expensive no doubt_ – they still pale in comparison to the radiance Will carries with him.  
  
It seems Will has not wasted his time while waiting. He’s cut his hair and rediscovered clothes that suit him far better than the jumpsuit ever did. The pink of his shirt matches that growing flush of his cheeks and the pink of his lips. He walks with head held high even though Hannibal can scent that his heat may only be seconds away. He’s nothing like the shaky, barefoot man left out on the steps and in need of a blanket across his shoulders. He creates his own warmth and his own destiny.  
  
Hannibal’s mouth feels drier with how his teeth and tongue long to be wet with Will’s blood.  
  
Will walks up to Matthew, who turns towards him in an almost dreamy distraction. Matthew’s wide-open eyes take on a more starry quality. He turns away dutifully to place his gun on the floor and retrieve the knife. Will holds out his hand and Matthew slides the silver metal handle into his palm.  
  
Will watches the glint of light on the blade as he becomes accustomed to the weight of it in his hold. Will doesn’t look up towards Hannibal, but his commanding tone still makes it known who he’s addressing. “Do you recall Matthew’s tribute?”  
  
“Tribute to me,” Hannibal declares as he grits his teeth. His heart pounds not from a simple desperation to survive, but with an instinct to _fight_. There is no fleeing or freezing.  
  
“Matthew’s tribute died believing they were friends. That was his last thought,” Will recalls. He ignores Matthew's huff of a laugh, the threatening clamor of a bucket tilting, and the creaking of a rope tightening that much further. “I _felt it_ through Matthew. Learned _vicariously_ what that would _taste_ like.”  
  
Will walks up the steps like Matthew had done and stands close enough to look into Hannibal’s eyes too. Hannibal has to keep from choking on how his mouth waters and Will knows it. His scent pulls Hannibal in. Although there is no subtlety or scarcity, Hannibal finds he might risk tipping forward just to get closer to the source.  
  
“You know what it’s like to be _captivated_ by a particular _flavor_ ,” Will whispers just to remind Hannibal that they’re close enough for him to still hear the most agonizingly quiet tones.  
  
“That death wasn’t personal,” Hannibal whispers back and watches how Will can’t help but scrunch his nose against the scent of _Alpha_ and a rut that’s just as precarious as his heat.  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” Will concedes easily. He taps the toe of his shoe against the bucket and it’s almost enough to make it tilt. “He was merely the ink from which flowed Matthew’s poem,” Will says as he raises the knife in his hand. He presses the edge of it just above the metal brace that keeps Hannibal’s arms outstretched. Should Hannibal teeter too far, it could very easily break skin. “I find myself _curious_ whether poetry might be best written with a bit more _feeling_.”  
  
“You wanted a proper courtship,” Hannibal rasps.  
  
Will raises a brow. “You should have fought more strategically when you had the chance,” he says. He pulls back on the knife just so he can admire the shine of it again. Unrestrained without shackles or chains, Will’s hand is free to lay flat against his belly as it has long craved too. When he looks back at Matthew, there’s a different shine to Will’s eyes. “Matthew has shown he can _provide_ when all you’ve done is _take_.”  
  
“Our world is kill or be killed,” Hannibal argues. “You’ll want your young to have the best traits.”  
  
It was once tradition for an Alpha to prove himself in a fight. It was tradition when Alphas had a lot to gain and little to lose. Not unlike Hannibal, who could very well die today either way. Should he win, he will keep his life and his plan will have achieved a satisfactory conclusion – albeit in an unexpected way. They could start their bond soaked in blood and have nothing else left standing between them.  
  
“What do you say, Matthew?” Will asks, though his smile is directed at Hannibal as he shows his teeth in a punishing sort of way. The points of his teeth should be what cuts into Hannibal’s neck and leaves its mark, not some simple _rope._  
  
Matthew chuckles. “May the best man win.”  
  
Will nods once and then uses the knife to cut Hannibal down. Hannibal stumbles as gravity means something different to the weight of his body. He no longer is held by the rope and restrained by it. It no longer keeps him held high or threatens to choke him. Air rushes from his lungs as his chest collides harshly with Matthew’s shoulder. With his arms restrained, he has no way to catch himself. He’s still panting in breaths through a throat that feels _raw_ as Matthew does away with those last restraints.  
  
Hannibal uses the newfound control of his arms to rub his hand against the bruise that’s likely to be forming around his throat. His head swims as the blood rushes back. It’s disorienting to say the least to have air and blood returned to him all at once. His body, once nearly overwhelmed by the absence, now threatens to treat what’s normal like excess.   
  
“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Matthew admires as he watches and waits. “I wonder what they’re going to call me. Us. Will and I. _Love birds_ , maybe?”  
  
As he settles his feet underneath him, Hannibal loosens the noose from his neck. He lifts the loop of rope over his head and drops it to the floor. He rolls his neck and Matthew chuckles. Will has withheld all the weapons for himself. The knife is folded back in his pocket and he has the gun in hand. With only their bare hands as weapons, the loser can only blame himself for the loss.   
  
Hannibal grunts as he forces a deep breath into his lungs and back out again. His head _aches_ and pounds. There are many ways in which Matthew has the upper hand, but Hannibal has never lost a fight before no matter how slim the odds. Some came with weapons he didn’t have. Some made sure he was outnumbered. Some waited until he was too weak with hunger. Still, they all did as everyone must do at some point and Hannibal lived another day. This would be no different.   
  
He lets the adrenaline of his oncoming rut rise to the surface. He lets the watchful eye of the one who will become his mate embolden him – but not distract. He lets Matthew lunge first. He lets Matthew use up the energy Hannibal doesn’t have to spare. He makes a show of letting a few of Matthew’s punches land so Matthew will get his fill of showing off for Will. While Will stays silent, he doesn’t have to make a sound to make it known that he’s pleased. Hannibal spits blood out onto the floor and catches Will’s eye. When Will smiles, Matthew punches _harder_.  
  
The next time Matthew swings his arm, Hannibal catches it. He pins it under his arm and slams his forehead against Matthew’s. The gasp that pulls from Matthew’s throat might be a laugh. The next time Matthew swings, Hannibal strikes his throat. Matthew sputters and coughs as he falls to his knees. Hannibal pauses to let him cough and gasp – lets him know how it feels to choke on too little air.  
  
Hannibal stumbles more than he would like as he moves to stand behind Matthew. His breaths are panting from a mouth hanging open as he locks eyes with Will. He places his hand in _just the right place_ on Matthew’s heaving, gasping throat. The young Alpha’s eyelids are spread open in a much more frantic sort of way. Hannibal twists in a curling motion and jerks back with a satisfying _snap_.  
  
Hannibal grunts with the ache and the dizziness in his skull while Matthew’s head lolls to the side. Hannibal pulls in a deep breath through his nose as he straightens his spine and presses his fingers to Matthew’s throat.   
  
“He’s not quite dead, you know,” he announces to Will, matching his lifted brow.  
  
“Showing mercy?” Will questions, tipping up his chin and licking his lips. “How unlike you.”  
  
Hannibal hums. “Mates thrive best when they work together,” he suggests as he wipes the sweat on his hand on Matthew’s jacket.  
  
Will fishes the knife from his pocket and folds it open again. “Mates follow through on their commitments.”  
  
Hannibal doesn’t have to be told twice. Killing Matthew is something he’s wanted done for a long time now and when all that there is left to Matthew is the slightest of obstacles, Hannibal will do what he does best. He destroys his competitor while looking Will dead in the eye. Neither of them blink. Will doesn’t shy away.  
  
As Matthew’s body falls lifeless to the ground, Will steps closer with the knife still cradled in his palm. Hannibal rises to his feet and his vision _swoops_ as blood still tries to situate itself properly in his body again. His systems are on haywire. The ones meant to help him survive with no air, the ones meant to help him survive a fight, and the ones meant to help him survive the demands of _rut_ and _heat_.  
  
The sight of the fight seems to have tipped Will from the tail end of preheat and into the full-blown thing just as Hannibal feels his rut doing the same. Will’s chest heaves as if he’d been the one fighting. His eyes burn a bright gold and his jaw clenches with a promised ferocity. Hannibal can smell his slick. It’s as evident and palpable as the way Hannibal’s cock strains against the confines of his swimsuit.  
  
Hannibal grunts in warning when Will’s knife is held too low and too close, but Will ignores it. Will pulls the damp, tight fabric far enough away from Hannibal’s skin to slip the edge of his knife in between. The blade faces outward and cuts through the fabric, further and further splitting it along the meat of Hannibal’s thigh until it’s cut clean through. From there, Will can give what’s left enough of a _yank_ to have the fabric discarded on the floor.  
  
The air cools the remaining damp of Hannibal’s bare skin as he tucks the fingers of both hands in between two pretty white buttons on Will’s pink shirt and _pulls_ to send them scattering to the floor. Will hums as he tucks the knife safely away back in his pocket. By the time he’s done, Hannibal already has the button and zipper undone. Hannibal’s hands are vicious and _wanting_. He drags his touch across every bit of skin that he can.  
  
“Have I won you?” Hannibal asks as his fingers stray closer and closer to where Will is _soaking_ and smelling so absolutely _delicious_.  
  
“That still remains to be seen,” Will replies even as he arches his body and gasps.  
  
Will lets the last of his clothes fall to the floor and allows Hannibal to pull their bodies against each other. Hannibal’s hands roam further, grabbing at the flesh of Will’s ass as Will moans against his mouth.  
  
“Can you taste the blood I’ve shed for you?” he murmurs against Will’s lips, his voice deep and hoarse. “Can you taste how I’ve fought to prove myself? Is it still not enough for you to go to your knees?”  
  
Will hums and Hannibal can feel it as if it comes from his own voice. Hannibal’s blood surges through his veins and his heart pounds in his chest. His muscles tense with the want to throw Will to the floor, sink deep inside him, and dig his teeth into the gland at his throat. He wants to cover Will with his body so that no one else might steal him from his arms.  
  
It’s Will’s knees trembling that guides him towards the floor. Hannibal has to unwind his muscles to allow it to be so. Will’s instincts guide him to spread his knees and press his chest down flat. He holds still there even as he hisses from the cold of the stone against fevered skin. Hannibal’s instincts have him looming over Will and pressing his palm against Will’s heaving back to feel the strength of the body that’s laid itself before him.  
  
Will’s breath comes out panting as Hannibal’s fingers touch at where he’s burning hot and dripping wet. Will arches his back further and his next breath comes out wet with spit. “Do it,” he commands.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t have to be told that twice either. He sinks his fingers in and finds they’re hardly needed. Will’s body is as open and welcoming as it has ever been. His body welcomes Hannibal sinking in as together they sink back somewhere deeper into their collective minds. Within their simplest selves, their simplest compatibility, below the hidden revelations and words with double meanings, they are as uncomplicated as the easy pleasure of filling Will from the inside out.  
  
Hannibal thrusts his hips as he _mounts_ Will. There are little staccato noises spilling from Will’s mouth each time their skin slaps together and Hannibal fills him as deep as he can. His knot swells larger and larger with each press in and pull out and with each pleasured moan knocked from Will’s chest.  
  
“You want me to demonstrate that I can _provide?”_ Hannibal says with grunt as he falls forward to press his chest along Will’s back and bracket his hands by Will’s head. He nuzzles his nose against Will’s sweat-damp hair and smells how his scent is _purely him_. No cheap cologne, no illness, simply Will and how he’s made himself _irresistible_. “I’ll give you the pups you’re so _desperate for_ ,” Hannibal rasps right against Will’s ear. “I’ll even give you back the one you thought you’d lost.”  
  
At even the vaguest mention of their dear, sweet Abigail, Will startles and gives his own grunt. He presses his palms underneath him and bucks back against Hannibal’s chest. He then gasps with another thrust in and trembles as Hannibal’s knot nearly catches enough to _seal them_.  
  
“You’ll have to be more patient,” Hannibal nearly croons. “I’ll set everything in motion as I always have, but the next pups I give you can’t be rushed.”  
  
Will stops trying to push back. His hand instead trails down his own sweating, shaking body to give himself the last push he needs. Hannibal can feel the shifts of muscle as Will touches himself. He feels it like the rippling vibrations of Will’s moans and the desperate clenching of his hole. He feels it like he feels how Will’s body calls out to be so thoroughly filled.  
  
“Let me put my teeth in you as I put my pups in your belly,” Hannibal whispers when he knows one last push in will render them connected in more ways than one. He wants _everything_ of Will – his body, his mind, his present, his future. He wants to give Will a gift and see it returned, perhaps two- or threefold.  
  
_“Yes,”_ Will gasps as his body tenses one last time before it releases, relaxing enough to make way. As Hannibal’s knot pops in and can’t be pulled out again, Will demands through grit teeth, _“Do it now.”_  
  
Hannibal spills deep in Will’s body as Will’s blood spills under his teeth. The sharp, metallic taste is _sweetened_ by heat and a well-pleasured Omega. It would be the perfect accent note to a red wine. He can easily imagine it pairing well with every meal.   
  
Will’s body tenses and relaxes in another quick succession, pleasure merging with pain as their bodies align and merge further. A bond has been forged but not yet solidified. That will require Will’s teeth to leave their mark too.  
  
He touches his hand low in between Will’s hips. He spreads his fingers wide and presses his palm flat. He would like to remember how it feels now and study every shift as it grows. “Do you plan to kill me when I’ve done you my service?” he questions.  
  
“I don’t know,” Will says and it might have been a taunt if not for how his breath is still gasping. “What are the other ways you can make yourself _useful_?”  
  
Hannibal’s chuckle is dark and low in his throat. The rawness that’s been there since the tightening of a rope has found some appeasement, but only _some_. “You could have had the courtship you spoke of. I was prepared to give you a bouquet of the deadliest flowers, planted within a man’s chest. I would have left you another man molded in the shape of my heart,” Hannibal confesses in between licks to the wound in Will’s neck as it still oozes new blood. “I’ll provide. You only have to recognize what you’ve been given.”  
  
Will huffs a laugh, but it’s lighter and brighter than anything Hannibal has heard in a long while. He presses his hand against the top of Hannibal’s as he says, “Maybe we’ll see how good you are with our first litter and decide from there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how you think I did with Shirlisa's prompt! It was really fun to do! 
> 
> If you'd like me to write a prompt for you, come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/transcryptidone). (I actually have the settings done correctly now...)


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